“Fantastic!” Andy claps his hands in a jittery motion and rocks back on his heels.
Our eyes widen as our fate is sealed. No one’s going to dare question him or voice any disagreement.
Then he’s leaving. Thank you, God.
But just as he’s about to turn, he stops and stares at me again.
“It’s Lucy, right?” he practically growls.
I nod, throat tightening. “Y-yes, sir.”
Those brown eyes bore into mine. “Consider this your one and only free pass, Lucy. I don’t tolerate disrespect. Cross me again, and you’ll be fired on the spot.”
ONE YEAR LATER: PRESENT DAY
JP
I used to believe love was a distraction. An inconvenience. Love was for the weak-hearted, those still stuck in the pitiful illusion of the quintessential American dream, the white picket fence, and the two-and-a-half kids. It didn’t align with my game plan.
But then, it caught me off guard.
I found love lurking in the most unlikely corner of my empire. The IT department, of all the damn places.
It’s like an addiction, something I never imagined I’d be susceptible to. Something that chips away at my armor. Something that makes me vulnerable. Something that gnaws at me until I start to crave it, the sweetness, the warmth, the… fuck… love.
Then, true to form, I ended up sabotaging it all. I screwed it up. I took that delicate thing and wrecked it because that’s what I do.
Damn it, even a wolf can bleed.
Lucy
As a kid, there was this giant, snow-white dog named Buddy who lived down my street. Every day, like clockwork, I’d poke my arm through the fence just to give Buddy a rub, and his deep, amber eyes felt like they understood my childish chatter.
One day, it all changed.
I heard a shout and ran to the window to see a van across the street. Buddy’s human was hysterical. I watched, frozen, as Buddy was muscled into a cage by two burly men. His head forcefully jerked against the bars in protest as they restrained his neck with a pole. He thrashed and snarled, clearly expressing his disapproval.
My dad wrapped his arms around me as we watched the van carry Buddy away.
Where had all the fury come from? In a blink, our neighborhood marshmallow had morphed into a raging beast. I can still hear his pained howls ringing in my ears. It sounded as though something precious had been taken from him.
Every so often, I get flashbacks of poking my little arm through that fence, but instead of seeing Buddy letting me stroke him, I see the snarling face and bared teeth ready to chomp on my arm.
Somewhere in the far-off distance, there’s a beeping sound-like an alarm clock from hell. It won’t quit. And in my mind’s eye, I can hear Buddy’s grumbling growl as I reach my arm into the danger zone.
I can’t help myself. His intense amber eyes lock onto mine just as his teeth sink into my flesh.
Jesus, that’s real pain.
I try to yank my arm back, but he clamps down even harder, stealing the groan that’s building in my throat.
“Urghhhhh.”
I’m pretty sure that the guttural sound is mine.
But it’s more than my arm that hurts; it’s my head. It pounds like I’ve been flattened by a truck, and the giant tires are still rolling over me.
Buddy’s eyes are like lasers boring into mine. Can’t he tell how much he’s hurting me? They seem to morph right before my eyes, shifting from liquid gold to a deeply human shade of brown.
Those brown eyes bore into mine, their intensity bringing more pain than any physical wound ever could. I want to look away, to hide, but the vice-like grip of his stare leaves me paralyzed, consumed by an emotional pain so raw it’s unbearable.
Then, as if a light switch has been flipped, his eyes return to their regular golden shade, only now they’re glaring like high-beam headlights.
I squint against the brightness. Wait, are my eyes even open?
No, this is just a nightmare. I’m safely tucked away in my Manhattan apartment. Not revisiting my Jersey childhood with Buddy trying to gnaw my arm off.
Even with my eyelids squeezed shut, the light filtering in is too much.
The beeping sound is getting harsher and more grating.
How hungover am I, exactly? A couple of glasses of wine isn’t nearly enough to justify this brutal headache and trippy dream. Matty and I hit the bar last night to mope about my lack of promotion and discuss the whole Wolfe fiasco.
Oh… shit. Wolfe. I’ll probably hear today if he wants me pulled from the project. That’s why I feel so bad; I’m sick with nerves. At least he didn’t fire me on the spot.
I roll my tongue around my mouth, picking up a bitter, medicine-like aftertaste. Probably the preemptive Advil I popped last night.
Well, that was a total fail.
Something feels off.
I can sense it, even with my eyes still shut. I stretch out my arms, and my fingers don’t graze the familiar cotton sheets of my bed. These sheets are cool and silky.
I take a deep breath. The air smells foreign too-like disinfectant mixed with a hint of lavender and floral undertones.
My God, did I hook up with some old guy last night? Bits and pieces from yesterday trickle back: Matty and me at the bar, the impromptu jazz club detour… then nothing.
Blinking slowly, I take a moment to connect the dots that the obnoxious beeping isn’t just some cruel trick my brain is playing; it’s originating from near my bed. My phone?
Have I overslept?
Wait, what day is it even?
Bracing myself, I force open my eyes and…
My heart slams against my chest. The fuck is this place?
This isn’t my bedroom. This isn’t some random dude’s room, either. This is a hospital room. A ridiculously swanky one at that.
I lift my head a smidge, instantly regretting it as a wave of pain crashes into my brain.
What fresh hell is this? How did I end up here?
Don’t freak out.
Do not freak the fuck out.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Everything’s gonna be just fine.
Testing the waters, I wiggle my toes and fingers to check that all my bits and pieces are in their rightful places and functioning. There’s an IV line burrowed into my arm. It feels itchy and tickly.
I lightly trace my face with my thumb-nose, eyes, cheeks-no missing parts. I don’t feel like I’ve been Frankensteined together, but there’s something tight around my head-must be a bandage.
Ouch. A tender spot throbs on my forehead when I touch it-there’s probably a bruise there, so I must have whacked my head on something. But where? Did I fall out of bed?
I need a mirror. I need a nurse. Stat.
I survey my surroundings without moving too much. The walls are painted with soft pastel colors, serene blues and grays. Someone put effort into designing this room. It looks like a Pinterest board. Flower-packed vases crowd the bedside tables, partially blocking the expansive window view. I can just about make out the Quinn & Wolfe building in the distance. At least that’s familiar.